Frankie felt much better hearing that. Wow, other people were suffering too. Yippee.
His wife called his cell to report that their lights were still on, but their neighbors’ houses had lost power. “Thanks for the update,” he said. “Does that mean you’re gonna cook dinner?” She hung up on him.
On his return trip to Queens, he was going against rush-hour traffic, but the cars still crawled. He decided to stop on the other side of Woodside before heading home. He owed Tía Alba a visit. He lived only a five-minute drive away, but didn’t see her as much as she wanted. He parked outside Seán Óg’s, the Irish pub on Woodside Avenue. It was 8:30 and the darkness was settling in slowly. He loved the way the day took its time ending during the height of summer. The extended daylight brought back memories of riding his bike at dusk and playing ball with the other children. Remote, simpler times, when the most important decisions he made revolved around which kids to torment for the day.
Most of the businesses on Woodside Avenue were dark, but a few had lights. Weird how the power grid worked, skipping over certain places but hitting the ones next door. He briefly wondered whether someone got paid off to keep the lights on in certain places. Nah. That was too paranoid, even for him.
The big wooden sign on the side of Seán Óg’s read Drinking Consultant. He wondered about that every time he saw it. He could picture the scene inside: A guy walks up to the bar, says, “I want to consult you about drinking.” The bartender says, “Yes, sir, what would you like to drink?” Frankie wondered if the consultation cost fifty bucks an hour, like a shrink. Probably, he thought, if you downed the booze fast enough. Then again, you’d probably wind up lying down in Seán Óg’s, just like at a shrink’s, you drank enough. He remembered when the place was some other Irish joint where you could bet on soccer games and horse races. Of course, the son of a bitch running the place taped the soccer games and got suckers to bet on the losing team when he rebroadcast them, but it only took a couple of losses for people to wise up. The guy went out of business years ago, go figure.
Frankie’s family had been among the first wave of Latinos to settle in Woodside. He’d gotten his ass kicked a few times before the other kids in the Irish working-class neighborhood accepted him. It helped that his family was Catholic. Also that his old man brought them here when Frankie was young enough that he didn’t grow up speaking with an accent. His pop, on the other hand, had the whole Señor Wences thing going.
Now, of course, it didn’t matter. Aside from a few old, entrenched Irish families, the neighborhood was predominantly Latino. Not too many Mexicans, but a few here and there. Mostly Dominicans, Salvadorans, Guatemalans, some Puerto Ricans. Plus your Indians, Pakistanis, and Koreans, of course. Most of those were in neighboring Jackson Heights, but a lot of them had slipped over into Woodside. And now the Russians were discovering the neighborhood. Not to mention the blacks who were swarming into the projects the next block over from Frankie’s house.
He glanced up Woodside Avenue and suddenly felt old. He could remember when almost every business had been something else. Except the Astoria Federal Bank. They’d been annoying people in the same spot for years. A fee for this, a fee for that; I’m sorry, sir, we’ve misplaced your records... He couldn’t think of a place that gave him more heartburn than that bank. Well, maybe the DMV, but it was close.
Get a grip, Frankie told himself. He knew his thoughts were careening crazily because he had to go see his aunt. She wasn’t his real aunt, of course; that was just what everybody called her. At the corner of Woodside Avenue and 62nd Street, he glanced at the building on his right. The lights dotted the windows of The Jefferson. It figured Tía Alba’s building would still have electricity. She would keep the power on through sheer force of will. He stepped into the vestibule and took a deep breath. He pressed the buzzer for her apartment. After a pause for whoever was manning the door to look at him through the camera, he got an answering ring. He dragged himself up the three flights, prolonging the inevitable.
Tía Alba threw open the door. “Ay, Paquito!” she squealed. “Ven acá!” She held her arms open. Paquito was Spanish for “Frankie.” He hated to be called Paquito. His aunt smelled of lavender water. He was mildly allergic to the scent and felt his nose tickle uncomfortably. He hated lavender water. He embraced her quickly and stepped back.
“Come in, come in,” she said. “Sit down. I have some empanadas heating up.” She bustled toward the kitchen.
“No, gracias, tía,” he said. “I’m not hungry, really.” He patted his stomach to indicate how full he was. He hated her empanadas.
“Okay, some coffee then, sí? You’ll have some café conmigo?”
Sure, he would have coffee with her. Her coffee was tolerable. Besides, it would take her a few more minutes to pour.
But no, she was back instantly with two steaming cups. “Just perked,” she said. She still used a stovetop percolator, rather than a coffee machine, although God knew she could have had a new one every week. She claimed the machines didn’t brew the coffee properly. “I knew you were coming.”
This prescience was less a function of her mind-reading abilities and more the result of the phone call he’d made to her in the morning before leaving the house, telling her he planned to stop by later.
And now it was later, and he owed her money, and he didn’t know how to tell her he didn’t have it.
She got right to the point. “What did you bring me?” She beamed at him.
“Well, listen, tía, it’s like this...” he started.
Her face darkened like a storm cloud. “Don’t tell me any stories, Paquito. I’m not in the mood for stories. Just give me what you owe me.”
Don Pedro stuck his head out of the back bedroom. “Trouble?” he asked. He and Tía Alba had been together for longer than Frankie could remember. Hardly anyone saw him unless something bad was about to happen. Don Pedro had an uncanny sense of when things were going to shit.
“No, no trouble,” Frankie croaked.
“Depends on what you mean by trouble,” Tía Alba said. “I think Paquito is a little short today.”
Don Pedro hauled his bulk into the living room. “Short? How can that be?” He looked genuinely puzzled.
“Well, listen,” Frankie said, looking up at the big man. Don Pedro towered over everybody, especially when he was standing and they were sitting. “I ran into a little trouble today. Because of the blackout.” He shrugged, letting them know that he could hardly be held responsible for the vagaries of Con Edison.
“No excuses, Paquito,” Don Pedro said. “We don’t tolerate excuses here. You know that.” He sounded almost regretful.
“I have almost all of it. Here,” he said, and pulled out his wallet. “I owe you another two hundred. Less, even.” He handed over a fat wad of bills.
Tía Alba counted them quickly. She shook her head. “Two hundred dollars. That’s not acceptable.” She brightened, as though struck with an idea. “Why don’t you go down to the bank and get the rest?” She turned to Don Pedro. “Walk him down to the ATM. You could stand to get a little air. You’ve been inside all day.”
“That’s a fine idea. Come, m’ijo.” He beckoned toward the front door.